Dante's Poison Page 19
I took the jacket off the hook by its collar and shook it one-handed without hearing the familiar rattle of the pills in their bottle. I leaned my cane against the wall to free up the other hand and rifled through the pockets. Nothing. I went back to my desk and patted all over its surface, over and under papers and around empty cups and napkins, pens, pencils, and various Braille devices. The bottle wasn’t there or in any of the desk drawers in or around my computer. With mounting concern I turned to my credenza, hurriedly groping through my toys and knocking my Magic Brain Calculator to the floor in the process. Maybe Jonathan had a point: my office was two steps away from being condemned. I was sure Melissa would be able to supply me with a refill, but it was embarrassing to have misplaced the pills, and I might not be able to get a substitute supply before the conference. I didn’t want to think about what else I could lose if there was a several-day gap in my treatment. What in Christ’s name had I done with them?
I stopped then and thought back over the morning. I had a firm memory of retrieving the bottle from its place next to the kitchen sink just after breakfast that morning. I’d tilted the plastic cylinder back and shook out one of the pills before washing it down with a glass of water and setting the bottle down on the counter—right next to my phone, Mets cap, and sunglasses so I wouldn’t forget it. Then what? I mentally retraced my steps back to my bedroom area where I’d gone to the bathroom to brush my teeth before putting on a tie. Then it was back to the kitchen to collect my gear before heading out the door. The cap went on my head, the phone went into the holder attached to my belt, and the pills went into my trouser pocket. I was sure of it.
Then where had they gone to?
It was moments like this that made me reconsider my commitment to clean living.
I went back over all the places I’d searched before, this time adding a hands and knees sweep of the carpet around my desk and the area near the door. Since going blind I’d been known to drop things and not realize it unless there was a corresponding clatter. No dice. I went over all my shelves, collecting enough dust along the way to earn the admiration of Pig Pen and there was still no sign of them. I looted my desk drawers once more and succeeded only in stabbing my thumb with a loose pushpin. I had just wrapped the finger in my handkerchief and was considering what nearby object I could pick up and hurl against the wall when a knock came at the door.
“Dr. Angelotti?”
“Oh, hey, Graham,” I said, trying to appear perfectly composed.
“Sorry to interrupt you, but I was coming by to give you some materials for the conference and I saw this in the hall.”
“This?” I queried without a clue as to what he was talking about.
“Oh, sorry. I should have been more specific. It’s a medication bottle with your name on it. I found it lying on the floor near the file room.”
Relief flooded over me as he put the bottle in my hand.
“I hope it doesn’t mean you’re ill,” Graham said, sounding genuinely concerned. “I’ve never heard of this drug before.”
“You wouldn’t have. It’s uh . . . experimental. Something for my sciatica.”
“Sciatica? Well, now, if I’d known you had that problem, I could have helped you out long ago. We have a terrific new pain product. It’s only been on the market two months, and the orders are literally pouring in. I can get you a few samples. People are saying they feel relief only minutes after taking it and . . .”
For once, I let him rattle on for as long as he wanted to.
The string of fine fall days was still in place the following morning when Boris pulled up in front of my building shortly before 9:00 a.m. He got out of the driver’s seat and took my overnight bag, giving me his usual terse greeting. As always, the town car was piled high with beverages, snacks, and magazines, along with a television set blaring the Today show. “I turn that off,” Boris said as I climbed in, expecting I might want to follow our progress on my phone as I sometimes did during long car rides. “It’s OK,” I told him. “Leave it on if you want to.” The resort was a good hour away even barring traffic delays, and I figured the mindless chatter would keep me from brooding.
We headed west to the Kennedy and then north toward Milwaukee, exiting the Tri-State near Libertyville and turning west again into McHenry County. Once we were off the highway and onto the back roads, I rolled the window halfway down so I could take in the country air, breathing in the fragrance of prairie grasses and freshly plowed earth. My first year in Chicago I’d done a century—a hundred-mile bike course—not far from the area we were in, and the memory allowed me to give free rein to my imagination as we motored past farms and orchards and fields dotted with livestock. I tried not to think about what it would be like to ride a bike outdoors again.
We arrived at the resort two hours before the start of the conference and pulled into a valet area bustling with what Boris informed me were late-model Mercedes, Lexus SUVs, and BMWs. During the ride, Boris was unusually quiet, even for him, so I asked him if anything was the matter.
“You will see,” was all he said, resignedly. I wondered whether I should press him, but figured he’d tell me in his own good time.
Boris parked the car and walked me through a revolving door toward the commotion of the registration desk, teeming with newly arriving guests. He wanted to wait with me on line, but I told him I could handle it from there. We made arrangements for him to pick me up again on Sunday—early, so I wouldn’t miss my Skype session with Louis—and Boris departed. It took a good twenty minutes to get to the head of the queue, where a hotel clerk greeted me questioningly.
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” he asked.
I put on a quizzical expression.
“The seeing eye dog school is a few miles down the road.” He sounded embarrassed for me.
“I tried them first, but they were full,” I said.
“As we are too, I’m afraid. I can help the next person in line,” he said brusquely over my shoulder.
Evidently he’d been well trained at hospitality school.
“Pity,” I said.
“Say what?” the clerk drawled.
“Pity when your manager finds out you’ve been ungracious to a paying customer.” I removed a credit card from my wallet and slid it over the desk to him. “There should be a room waiting for me. If you don’t mind taking my money.”
“Why, no. Of course not,” he said, just as dubiously. “Just let me have a look in our database.” He began vigorously clacking keys on a keyboard. “Which conference are you here for?”
“I didn’t realize there was more than one.”
“Oh, yes. We’re booked solid all weekend.” He stopped in apparent surprise. “It appears we do have a guest room reserved for someone with your last name, but . . .”
I sighed.
It took another ten minutes to convince him that I wasn’t a con artist posing as the MD listed in his records, that my credit was good, and that I could indeed handle a signature on the registration card if he’d just show me where to put it. I then had to cool my heels waiting for a bellhop to show me upstairs, having ascertained that the hotel’s “commitment to meeting and exceeding all of the requirements of the ADA” did not extend to Braille signage on the doors of guest rooms.
“Sorry about that,” the bellhop said as he was leading me over to the elevator. “We don’t get many blind guests, and the powers that be didn’t want to change all the signs. You probably know they don’t have to unless it’s new construction or they’re making renovations.”
He seemed unusually knowledgeable, and I soon found out why: he was completing a master’s degree in rehabilitation counseling at ITT during the evenings.
“It’s really cool you’re a doctor,” he said. “Most of the blind clients I’ve met at school can’t get a job, even when they’re fully qualified. It’s like everyone’s worried it will rub off on them. It’s why so many of them end up helping other blind people.”
“RP?” he asked. It was a good guess. Apart from accidents, Retinitis Pigmentosa was the usual reason people my age lost their sight.
“Different pedigree, but similar effect.” Normally, I liked talking about the subject about as much as I liked having a tooth filled, but he had such an open, honest manner it seemed churlish not to answer. “What’s your name?”
“Nick.”
“Mark,” I said, extending my hand. “So what can you tell me about this place?” I’d pretty much struck out with the resort’s website, which was no more accessible than the room signage.
Nick proceeded to give me a rough guide to the floor plan, which fit the blueprint of most hotel/conference centers I’d ever stayed at. There were two wings jutting out in the shape of a wide-angle V from the reception area, located in a multistory, south-facing atrium. The grand ballroom room, fitness area, and spa were on the ground floor behind reception, and the conference area was directly above them. “You’ll mostly want to stay in the west wing, where your room is,” Nick told me. “Just take the elevator down to the promenade level, where they’ll be serving lunch. The CME will be taking place on the right side as you exit the elevator bank. The east wing on the left is for the company meeting that will be taking place at the same time.”
“Company meeting?” I asked as the elevator let us off at what he told me was six.
“Yeah, Atria always buys out most of the resort this time of the year so they can get their sales staff rubbing shoulders with the doctors at the bar and on the course. The reps are always saying how good for business it is. While you’re attending your lectures, they’ll be next door plotting their marketing strategy for the year. I’d try not to wander over there, if I were you. They’re pretty touchy about security. Even the hotel staff has to stay out of the room when they’re meeting. I got my ass chewed off last time for not knowing about the spy stuff when I was tapped for coffee urn duty. I walked into one of their rooms with the refills and it was like everyone had a stroke.”
“If I, uh . . . do get lost, how will I know which rooms to stay away from?”
“You’re in luck there,” Nick said. “They changed the meeting room names six months ago, so those signs do have Braille on them. The west wing rooms are all named after flowers—Rose, Tulip, Iris, and so forth. The east wing rooms are all named after trees—Oak, Maple, Elm, etcetera.”
My curiosity got the better of me. “What were they named after before?”
“Foreign capitals. But someone in corporate decided it was un-American. So just remember to stick with the flowers and you’ll be OK.”
Nick showed me how to find my room, which required turning left off the elevator bank and continuing past six doors on the right side of the corridor. “I’ll come back in a bit and stick a piece of electrical tape just under the number so you won’t have to worry about making a mistake,” he said. He opened the door and showed me in and took me all around the room, pointing out the location of phones, remotes, and climate controls. The room was regulation business hotel, right down to the king-sized bed with enough pillows in all shapes and sizes to supply a sultan’s harem. Just before leaving, Nick took out a penknife and cut the corner off my key card adjacent to the magnetic stripe so I wouldn’t have to try umpteen different ways of swiping it to unlock the door. I tipped him five dollars, and he was savvy enough not to refuse it.
“Call me if there’s anything else I can help you with while you’re here. Just press ‘0’ on the room phone and ask for Nick. Turndown service with a complimentary water bottle is at eight o’clock.”
“Thanks,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I’d be using the bed that night. A plan was beginning to form in my head that might require an early getaway.
In the movies, the blind man with his loyal German shepherd is as overdone as Italians in the mob. But the majority of blind people—even those more partial to dogs than I—get around using a stick. A lucky few develop “facial vision,” a sensitivity to air pressure so acute that they can walk right up to walls and other obstructions without colliding with them. Possibly because I still relied on my eyes more than I should have, my attempts to develop this skill had been a bust, with little more to show for them than bruised shins and some near misses with gas-company excavation sites. After scaring myself this way a few times, I’d become resigned to hauling the cane around with me whenever I wasn’t at home or at work. Nonetheless, a little while later found me exiting my room without it.
I planted one foot carefully before the other, wishing the carpet wasn’t so thick. A better echo from my steps would have helped me stay in a straight line. Without the cane I felt exposed and unbalanced, and it was a struggle to keep my arms in a relaxed position by my sides as I made my way down the corridor, which was as dimly lit as a coal mine. It wasn’t until I got to a turn that I could detect a diaphanous glow coming from an exterior window. I used that and the sound of the cars moving along their cables to ascertain the location of the elevator bank, set within a darker recess in the fog-filled landscape to my right. The scent of face powder and an impatient sigh told me I had company. I trained my eyes on what was surely a woman and smiled.
“Going down to the conference?” I asked brightly.
“Uh-huh. More damned CME. Are you a doctor, too?”
I shook my head. “No, just one of the salesmen. We’re meeting at the same time.”
“Too bad. I was hoping you could show me where I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s no problem. Just hit the button for the promenade level and turn right when you get downstairs,” I said, enjoying the irony of being the one giving directions.
She thanked me just as the elevator chimed, announcing its arrival on our floor.
“After you,” I said, always the gentleman. I followed the sound of her heels into the crowded car and managed to get over the threshold with only a minor stumble. Normally, I would have located a free space by feeling demurely forward with my cane, but all I had now was my toe. I inched it forward until it met with another person’s shoe, grinning maniacally in the hope that no one would notice. “Floor?” asked a man to my right with a distinct tone of disapproval. “Promenade,” I replied. I counted the chimes as the elevator stopped at four more floors, increasing its cargo each time until my back was pressed into the starched abdomen of the man behind me, who was breathing hot, foul air into my ear.
When the doors opened at the promenade level, the passengers streamed quickly out and I was pushed forward before I had a chance to gain my footing, nicking my shoulder as I passed through the door and staggering slightly. A woman to my rear stage-whispered, “Can you believe that? It’s not even noon and he’s already three sheets to the wind.” I ignored her and extricated myself from the thick crowd moving toward the buffet area, whose location my nose left no doubt of. I found a wall and anchored myself there for a moment, sweating profusely. Once outside the swiftly moving posse of conference goers, the sunlight filling the atrium straight ahead was easier to detect. I gathered my courage and marched toward the glare until I met up with the railing overlooking the lobby below, where I stopped to rest and wipe a hand across my brow.
I flipped the crystal on my watch to check the time. It was then 11:45. Based on the scraping of cutlery and raucous conversation nearby, lunch hour was in full swing. The formal meetings wouldn’t start for another forty-five minutes, which with luck would give me the time I needed. With my back turned to the rail, I was now facing north. To find the flower rooms I should have headed to my left. Instead, I took a deep breath and started out in the opposite direction.
After Nick left me I’d rung up reception from my cell phone—again with caller ID blocked—and explained that I was stuck in traffic and had misplaced my agenda for the Atria sales meeting. Could they remind me where the meeting would be taking place so I wouldn’t have to waste time looking for it when I arrived? Th
e clerk who answered told me I needed the Elm Room, just inside the entrance to the east wing. There would be an easel with a sign bearing the company logo beside the door. Unless I was blind I couldn’t miss it.
As I crept forward the crowd thinned, and by the time I’d reached the entrance to the east wing, looming ahead of me like the maw of a huge black cavern, there were few footsteps around me. It appeared I was mostly alone. My next job was finding the Elm Room. The easel by the door would be of no help—unless I happened to walk into it—and massaging the walls with my fingers would have surely pegged me as your not-so-average salesperson, if not a bona fide nut. Fortunately, I was saved from blowing my cover by the sound of someone heaving boxes onto a table and swearing. I advanced toward the sound with my right hand held out a few inches in front of my thigh until it connected with a cloth-covered surface, and beamed in the general direction of whoever was standing behind it.
“Hi, there,” came the candy-apple voice of a young woman. “Are you here for the sales meeting? You’re early.”
“I thought I’d get a head start on finding a seat.”
“Smart idea. It’ll be standing room only when the presentations get underway. I’m Gretchen, Mr. Henderson’s assistant.”
I stuck out my hand, introducing myself as Mark Halliday.
“Hmmm,” she said quizzically as she took it. “I don’t remember that name from the roster.”
“I, uh . . . only got called to the meeting at the last minute. I flew in from the East Coast this morning.”
“I wish somebody’d let me know. But the bosses are like that, aren’t they? Always changing their minds at the last second and God help the poor slob who doesn’t jump ten feet in the air to make it happen. If you’re not on my list, I won’t have a name tag for you. But I can make up a temporary. What did you say your name was again?”